Warrior (46 page)

“I suppose, come that day, we’ll find out who the clever one really is,” she laughed, squeezing his arm affectionately.

As he looked into those remarkable emerald eyes, Hablet suddenly understood something about his eldest daughter. Adrina wasn’t afraid of him.

And that made Hablet just a tiny bit afraid of Adrina.

Starros pushed his way through the crowded streets of Krakandar’s Beggars’ Quarter, wondering at the preparations for the Feast of Kaelarn. The streets were festooned with blue bunting and there were buckets of water outside almost every door as an offering. It was a bit of a joke, really. They were miles from the ocean here in Krakandar City, the nearest seaport being Port Sha’rin to the west, in the Gulf of Fardohnya, several hundred miles away. Still, the God of the Oceans was a powerful god, he supposed, and it probably didn’t pay to antagonise him.

There was a street parade planned for later in the day and then the ball tonight at the palace, followed by fireworks and probably impromptu parties in every other street in the city as the night wore on. Krakandar’s cattle raiders had liberated a goodly number of prime Medalonian beef cattle for the feast and everyone was looking forward to a night of gluttony and drunken revelry. Starros glanced up at the sky and picked up his pace as he realised he didn’t have long. He had to get back to the palace before the guard of honour arrived and the start of the parade—although, unlike everyone else in Krakandar, that was what he was least looking forward to.

He turned into the next street and spied his destination. The Pickpocket’s Retreat was a large establishment and quite well off, given its location in the Beggars’ Quarter. The paltry exterior belied its comfortable interior, however. Starros had seen enough of the inner rooms to know the outer façade and taproom was more for show than anything else. This was the Beggars’ Quarter, after all, and it didn’t pay to flaunt one’s wealth too loudly in these streets.

He pushed open the door and looked around, spying Wrayan Lightfinger at a table in the corner by the window, talking to his chief lieutenant, Luc North. The two men seemed deep in conversation about something quite serious and, for a moment, Starros debated the wisdom of disturbing them. He knew Wrayan well enough to know he was better off remaining ignorant about his business. While he was wondering about it, the thief glanced up, smiled when he saw Starros, and beckoned him over.

“Well, if it isn’t the future chief steward of Krakandar Palace,” Wrayan said with a grin. “Bring our esteemed guest a drink, Fee!”

“I’m not disturbing you, am I?”

“We’re finished,” Luc told him, rising to his feet. “I’ll come by later and tell you how it went,” he added to Wrayan. Then he smiled at Starros. “Nice to see you again, Starros.”

“You too, Luc,” Starros replied.

The man tipped his hat and turned for the door. Starros watched him leave curiously, and then turned back to Wrayan. “I didn’t interrupt something important, did I?”

“It’s nothing Luc can’t handle,” Wrayan shrugged. “Just a territorial dispute. It won’t get really nasty unless the . . . miscreant . . . fails to heed the Guild’s warning.”

“What do you define as ‘really nasty’?”

Wrayan smiled. “You’re better off not knowing, my friend. How’s life up at the palace treating you? Been promoted yet?”

Starros slid onto the bench seat opposite Wrayan that Luc had just vacated, shaking his head.

“It’ll never happen.”

“What will never happen?”

“Me ever becoming chief steward of anything. Orleon’s going to live forever.”

Wrayan laughed as Fyora hurried over to the booth and placed a tankard of fresh ale in front of Starros. She smiled at him, but Wrayan sent her away. “Gods, Fee, he’s just walked in the door. Give the poor man time to have at least one drink before you try to jump him.”

“I wasn’t jumping anyone, Wrayan Lightfinger,” she snorted indignantly. “I was merely taking care of our most distinguished patron. Can I get you anything else, my lord?”

Starros smiled. “Thanks Fee, I’m fine. And truly, you don’t have to call me that. I keep telling you that. I’m no more highborn than you are.”

“But you’re a
gentleman
, Starros,” she told him while glaring pointedly at Wrayan. “Some people just don’t know what that means.” Fee flounced off in the direction of the kitchens, her head high, as if that alone would give her class.

“You two have a falling out?”

“No more than usual,” Wrayan shrugged. “Although it might have something to do with a
court’esa
who’s been visiting my rooms of late that Fee doesn’t really approve of.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She has a pulse.”

Starros laughed. “She’s jealous?”

“I can’t imagine why. Fee gave up on me a long time ago. These days, the lovely Fyora has her heart set on becoming mistress of this establishment.”

“Shouldn’t she have worked off her bond by now?” Starros asked curiously, thinking Fyora had been at the Pickpocket’s Retreat for as long as he could remember. It was twelve years since the first time he had sneaked down here with Damin and Kalan.

Wrayan nodded. “She did. Years ago. I think she hangs around here because it’s all she knows.

Either that, or she’s waiting for old Fingle to marry her.”

Hary Fingle was the owner of the Pickpocket’s Retreat. He was the man who had originally purchased Fyora for the tavern and, just as she showed no inclination to leave, even though she was nominally free, he showed no inclination to be rid of her.

“Is Fingle likely to marry her?”

“He might,” Wrayan shrugged. “He certainly couldn’t run this place without her. I suppose the day that occurs to him, he’ll propose.”

“How come you never married, Wrayan?”

The thief looked at him with a disapproving frown. “Did you really come all the way down here from the palace just so I could slap you?”

“No,” Starros laughed. “I actually came with a message. You’re invited to lunch tomorrow.”

“I’ll bet Mahkas doesn’t know about it.”

“I do believe Lord Damaran is leaving for Walsark first thing in the morning,” Starros remarked.

“So it’ll just be me and Leila, Damin and Kalan.”

“Where are the rest of them?”

“Narvell’s still in Elasapine,” he explained, holding up his hand to mark off the various members of the family as he accounted for them. “Old Charel Hawksword’s finding it harder and harder to get about these days, and he likes to keep his heir close by his side. Last I heard,” he continued, counting off another finger, “Adham was in Medalon somewhere, looking for warehouse space to store the spices Ruxton can’t unload because of the restrictions on trade that Karien and Fardohnya have imposed since the plague hit. And Rodja’s stuck in Greenharbour with Princess Marla and Ruxton.”

“Nasty thing, the plague,” Wrayan agreed.

They’d been lucky here in Krakandar, Starros knew. The relative isolation of the northern city protected them from the disease. There were reports that as many as a third of the population of Greenharbour had been struck down by it and, for the first time in living memory, the Fardohnyans had voluntarily closed the passes at both Highcastle and Westbrook to prevent the spread of the disease across the border. It was the reason Damin was coming home for the Feast of Kaelarn and not staying in Greenharbour, where tradition demanded the High Prince’s heir should remain until the Summer Retreat. But the risk was too great, so Damin was returning to Krakandar and the whole city was in an uproar because of it. With other provinces he’d been required to visit, this was the first time their prince had been home in more than four years.

“Xanda and Luciena are on their way to Talabar, I heard, to do some deal with the shipbuilders there,” Starros continued, counting off another finger. “They’re planning to stay in Fardohnya with their children until it’s safe to return, I think. Rielle and Darvad won’t move out of Dylan Pass for the same reason. And poor Travin’s up at Walsark, running around like a headless chicken trying to get everything in order before Mahkas arrives, which is kind of funny because Mahkas made the arrangements to visit Walsark before he learned that Damin was coming home, and now he’s kicking himself that he has to leave the day after Damin gets here. Sort of gets in the way of his plans for Leila, I think.”

“If he’s only going to Walsark, he won’t be gone that long, surely?”

“Only a few days,” Starros agreed. “But he’s still not happy about it.”

Wrayan looked at him with a raised brow. “How is the lovely Leila, by the way?”

“She’s fine.”

“
Just
fine?”

Starros shrugged and looked out the window. There were a lot of people on the street and, curiously, they all seemed to be heading in the same direction. “There’s nothing to talk about, Wrayan.”

“I suppose not. Is Damin home yet?”

Starros shook his head and turned his attention back to Wrayan. “Almodavar rode out this morning with a guard of honour to meet them. We’re expecting him and Kalan just before midday.” He smiled sourly. “You don’t think Mahkas is putting on a street parade this afternoon just for the God of the Oceans, do you?”

“Let me guess. He’s arranged something really tasteless and embarrassing to remind everyone his daughter is going to marry Hythria’s next High Prince, yes?”

Starros nodded. “Leila’s already threatening to fake her own death to get out of it. I don’t think Damin’s going to be terribly thrilled about it, either. He hates all the pomp and ceremony associated with being Lernen’s heir and I’m sure he’s secretly delighted Greenharbour’s been struck with the plague, just so he can get out of the city for a while. The first thing he’s going to want to do when he gets home is go raiding over the border, not be put on show by Mahkas like some battle trophy.”

“This wouldn’t be happening if Princess Marla was here,” the thief suggested, his smile fading.

“In fact, I think she’d be furious.”

“It’s not that I haven’t been tempted to write to her about it, but—”

“But you’re afraid she’ll think you’re motivated by personal rather than political concerns?”

Wrayan asked sympathetically.

“That’s the problem, Wrayan, I
am
motivated by personal rather than political concerns,” he admitted. “There’s just no way to make Mahkas see that Princess Marla is never going to allow Leila to marry Damin.”

“Maybe Damin can make him see reason?”

“I wouldn’t wager the family fortune on it. If Marla’s told him not to rock the boat, Damin may simply do what the princess has done for the past twenty-three years and just dodge the issue every time Mahkas mentions it.”

“What about Lady Bylinda?”

“She’s had no more luck than anyone else convincing her husband he’s dreaming. I think she’s on Leila’s side, but she would never go against Mahkas. Not for any reason.”

Wrayan seemed to sense how much the whole messy situation was bothering Starros, so he forced a smile and changed the subject. “You say Kalan is with Damin? Does that mean Rorin is coming back, too?”

“I assume so. To be honest, I never thought to ask.”

“It’ll be good to see both of them again.”

Starros took a sip of his ale and then smiled suddenly. “You know Kalan still has the biggest crush on you.”

“I’m sure she’s well and truly over it by now, Starros.”

“Don’t count on it,” he laughed and added curiously, “Then again, maybe she and Rorin are . . .

you know . . . more than friends now? I mean, they’re awfully close.”

“I try not to think about it.”

“Why?”

“In my mind, Kalan is still ten years old, Starros. I can’t deal with the idea she’s all grown up and a damned sorcerer to boot. Makes me far too aware of how old I’m getting.”

“She’s had her own
court’esa
for more than six years, Wrayan. You don’t think that small but significant milestone indicated she was no longer a little girl?”

“I try very hard not to think about that, too.”

“It makes sense, though,” Starros mused. “If I was in Kalan’s position, I’d probably want to sleep with Rorin.”

“Be certain to mention that to him when he gets home. I’m sure Rorin will be delighted to learn you fancy him.”

Starros laughed. “You know what I mean. Given the nature of the Sorcerers’ Collective and the fact that they can’t afford to trust anybody but each other, it just makes sense for Kalan and Rorin to be—”

“Sense hasn’t got anything to do with love,” Wrayan cut in. “Don’t ever make that mistake.”

“That’s true enough,” he agreed, taking another mouthful of ale. “Are you sure you’re just not jealous of the fact that she actually graduated from the Collective, Wrayan, and you never did? Weren’t you the oldest apprentice that ever lived, or something?”

“They haven’t taught you much about tact and diplomacy up on the hill, have they?” Wrayan remarked with a frown. “No wonder Orleon plans to live forever.”

Starros finished his ale and smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’m probably going to be the oldest
assistant
chief steward that ever lived, so I shouldn’t mock your seedy past.”

“Mock away,” Wrayan shrugged. “It was that long ago now, it feels like it happened to someone else. Mind you, if you ever decide you don’t want to be the oldest assistant chief steward that ever lived, you could always come down here and work for me. We can always do with another bright mind.”

“Become a thief?” Starros laughed.

“Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it,” Wrayan suggested. “Anyway, what’s wrong with it?

Honouring the God of Thieves is a noble pastime.”

“Well, for one thing, it’s against the law.”

“Actually, it’s not.”

“Not a surprising position to take,” Starros remarked, “given you’re head of the Thieves’ Guild.”

“It’s not a
position
, Starros, it’s a fact.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We honour all the gods equally in Hythria—well, in theory, at least. To pass a law making it illegal to honour one of the gods is actually quite sacrilegious. We steal cattle off the Medalonians all the time, and nobody considers that a crime.”